


Hunting In Darkness

by LeslieFish



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-20
Updated: 2004-04-20
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Hunting In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Hunting In Darkness by Leslie Fish

_Hunting In Darkness_

By Leslie Fish 

* * *

**France, 1929**

Sean Burns had waited, with well-concealed patience, for two weeks; subsequently, he was visibly relieved when his secretary announced that a "Monsieur Walters" was at the front desk asking to see him. 

"By all means, send him to my office!" Sean glanced at the clock, then at his daybook. There were no further appointments today; Methos had arrived conveniently late. "Oh, and have Dr. Leclerc take evening rounds for me. ... And could you fill the ice-pail?" 

"Certainly, doctor." Sean could have sworn he heard a slight snicker in the man's voice. "Immediately." 

He wondered, as he opened his private cabinet and paused to decide among the candidate bottles, if the secretary recalled Methos' visit of eight months ago; probably the man had noted the empty bottle of cherry liqueur in the waste-basket afterwards. Yes, the excellent apricot brandy should do. Sean pulled out the bottle and set it on the low table before the fire, then added two pony-glasses stored for just such an occasion. Methos was making quite the connoisseur out of him. 

Another thought prompted him to open a file-drawer in his desk and pull out the page of newspaper hidden in the back. He spread the page on his desk and glanced again at the headline. There was no need to read the entire article; he'd memorized it in the ten days since he'd first seen it. 

A discreet tap on the door told that the secretary had arrived first. Sean opened to usher him in, and saw Methos following a polite two steps behind. 

"Ah, thank you, Georges," Sean beamed, taking the tray with the well-filled ice-pail. "That will be all." 

The secretary definitely smirked as he departed. Sean grinned at Methos, who returned an unrevealing smile, set the ice-pail on the table beside the brandy, and turned to welcome his old friend. He noted that Methos was quietly locking the door behind him. 

"Adam, so good to see you." Sean grasped both of Methos' forearms in the antique style. "No problems getting here, I trust." 

"None whatever." Methos returned the clasp, then let his hands fall. "The train from Paris was on time, for once." He turned away to pull out of his coat and hang it on the rack, this time taking some care to hide the outline of the sword inside it. 

"And have you had anything to eat?" Sean asked, moving toward the couch, and the waiting table. 

"Not since lunch," Methos admitted, following him. 

"It's early for dinner, but I think I can persuade my staff to fetch some croissants and cheese, if needed." Sean peeled off his suit-coat and settled on the couch. "Come, get comfortable, and tell me the news." 

Methos only blinked at that, and obediently dropped beside him. Sean noted that he looked...tired. Wrung out, perhaps -- or sated, he considered, But no longer under tension. And not ready to talk yet, either. Sean busied himself with setting ice-cubes in the glasses and covering them with the amber liquor. "Consider this a reply to the excellent cherry cordial you brought last year," he said, handing Methos one of the glasses. "Tell me what you think of it." 

Methos duly sipped, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. "Quite good," he pronounced. "Not at all heavy." 

_We'll see if he actually needs to get drunk, or if a few ritual sips will be excuse enough to loosen his tongue._ Sean glanced at the fire to make certain it was heaped well and likely to burn long without tending. He could start from a comfortable distance, if that was what Methos needed. "So, how is Darius getting on?" he asked. 

Methos sighed, and took another sip. "Busy, but he found sufficient time for me." 

_Probe there._ "More confession and penance, was it?" 

Methos winced. "Heavy penance," he admitted, setting down his glass. "Flogging." 

"Ouch." It was Sean's turn to flinch. "But did it help?" 

"Considerably." As if that were some manner of threshold, Methos relaxed. He shrugged out of his suit-coat and loosened his tie. "Darius is quite skilled with the whip. He knows exactly..." 

"...The whip?" 

"Sometimes I need it, Sean. It clears my mind." 

"Ah. The pain burns away everything else," Sean guessed, "and leaves you with a renewed sense of perspective?" 

Methos gave him a respectful look. "Precisely. It's so hard to explain that." 

"I've seen other examples." Sean judged that the time was right. "And...were you able to satisfy the demands of your compulsion?" 

"Yes." Methos heaved a vast sigh, then took up his glass again. "On suitable targets. No more than four of them." 

_Good. I won't have to show him the paper to remind him._ "I read an article, on the back pages of the Paris Soir, about a gang of street-Apaches who seemed to have attacked the wrong prey." Sean carefully didn't glance toward his desk, and the paper lying there. 

"Yes," Methos said again, and leaned back on the couch. "It was enough just to walk through their territory, looking like a poor lost tourist. Simple bandits have always been easy to bait into traps." 

_There! Entry to the past..._ "I take it you've done that before." 

"So very many times." Methos fixed his eyes on the fire and took another sip of the brandy. "It becomes predictable after awhile." He sounded weary and slightly bitter. 

_Backlash,_ Sean thought. _Reaction to combat-euphoria. But it's lasted this long..._ "What did you feel when they came at you?" 

Methos frowned, remembering. "Contempt. A kind of gleeful contempt. They were such perfect prey, so vicious and stupid... They saw me coming, they looked about for witnesses, then grinned as they returned their eyes to me; a child could have seen what they intended. I already had my hand on my sword. As I came close, they started to move -- 'telegraphing the punch', I believe it's called -- and I simply drew and lunged. Killed the biggest of them with the first slash. The others didn't even have the sense to leap back -- only stood there gawking -- until I stabbed the second. Then they jumped away, pulled out knives... Idiots. I'll admit that the third was clever enough to crouch and come up from below, but he was slow at it. I was half-turned, and my side-slash took off most of his arm." 

Sean was careful not to react. Methos was willing to speak freely; nothing must disturb that flow. 

"And he got that stupid, stupid look of surprise -- that look a bullying fool gets when his plans suddenly go awry. He stared at his arm, forgetting me for an instant... Idiot! He gave me a whole two seconds to decide what stroke I wanted to use. I cut his throat to keep him from howling, and went after the fourth." 

Sean made a noncommittal noise. 

"That one tried to run. If he'd stuck to the straightaway he might have outdistanced me, but he tried to be clever and duck into an alley. It slowed him down enough that I caught him. Sword-point under the ribs, and down he went." Methos drew a deep shaky breath. "I stood over him, waiting until he saw me. Waited to see the fear in his eyes, the look...that look...knowing he was going to die, that I was his death, and there was nothing he could do about it... He started to scream, and I stabbed him. Under the chin. The sound came out as a gargle, like a sheep bleating...and it soon stopped." 

"And...what did you feel?" 

"God..." Methos rested his head on the back of the couch. "Ecstatic relief, you call it? Heavy as a waterfall...but not like sex. No, I didn't stiffen, if that's what you're asking." 

"Put a name to the feeling," Sean insisted. "At least, what's the closest thing to it that you can name?" 

Methos didn't hesitate. "Satisfied rage...and it was very, very good. I stood there for long seconds after, soaking it up." 

"And then?" 

"I turned back to the others, looking to see if any of them were still alive...if there was anything else I could kill, to prolong the feeling. But they were dead." 

"Were you disappointed?" 

"Only a little. The feeling...it lasts a good while, Sean." Methos seemed to remember his brandy, and took another mouthful. "Then something odd happened. There was a woman coming out of a door. I don't know how long she'd been there, how much she saw, if she knew the thugs personally or just by type, but she'd stopped and was looking at the bodies." 

_Jesus, tell me you didn't--_ Sean managed to keep quiet. 

"She looked up and saw me coming, drawn sword, blood on it - visible even in the bad lighting -- but she wasn't afraid of me." Methos shook his head slowly in amazement. "Wary, but not afraid. She glanced at the nearest body, then back to me, and she...raised her hands -- not a warding-off but an appeasing gesture -- and she nodded once. Then she turned and went back through the door, all soundlessly. I knew - somehow I knew, without a word spoken - that she wouldn't tell of it." 

"Wordless communication. What did you feel then?" 

Methos' frown deepened. "A sort of...warmth. Almost...a sense of fellowship. That and the euphoria -- they were enough. I cleaned my sword on the nearest dry cloth, sheathed it, and walked away. The feeling buoyed me up, all the way to my hotel room, and I knew then that the...fit had passed. I fell asleep fast and easily, with no dreams." 

"Did you need a mortal's approval of your killings, to end them?" 

"No. And it wasn't approval so much as...acknowledgement, agreeing that some people deserve killing. And...I don't know if she saw how much I enjoyed it, but...I got the impression that she would have accepted that, too." 

"I see." _Simple reassurance that he isn't alone with this._ Sean reached out his near hand and rested it gently on Methos' shoulder. "What happened when you woke the next morning?" 

"That's when I went to see Darius." Methos took a quick gulp of the brandy, and set the glass down. "I waited until morning mass was done and everyone else had gone, then formally confessed everything. ...You know, he asked much the same questions you have." 

"Ah. I should talk to him more often; perhaps he can give me some ideas." 

"I doubt if you could apply his methods. For the penance, he...took me into his room, made me strip, tied me to the bed and..." Methos closed his eyes. "Good thing I was gagged. He wouldn't let me faint, but he made me...break, completely." 

_Seriously deep catharsis._ Sean squeezed Methos' shoulder. 

"Afterward, he held me while I cried like a baby. Then he washed me off, wrapped me up in a soft blanket, gave me a cup of herb tea and let me sleep." 

"How long?" 

"Late afternoon. I woke ravenous, and he had food already waiting. A simple meal -- cold chicken, light wine and plain cake -- but I hadn't tasted anything so good in a long time. He gave me his blessing, helped me dress, told me to come see you and sent me on my way." 

"Did you return immediately?" 

"No," Methos smiled. "I admit I spent a few days wandering around Paris, seeing the sights, doing all the touristy things...just enjoying them." 

"Enjoying being alive," Sean noted. "Physically, how did you feel?" 

"Heightened senses, but...lazy, languid." Methos rubbed his chin. "I didn't really want to do anything, just observe. I spent a lot of time sleeping." 

"Not surprising." 

"Finally I pulled myself together enough to pack up, get on the train and come here." 

"Hmmm. And where are you staying?" 

"I have a room in the local hotel. Why?" A touch of wariness tinged his voice. 

_Don't push._ "Just that I have a guest-room, if you need it. Not padded, I swear!" 

Methos laughed, then reached for his brandy. "I'm not so needy as that, really." 

"Needy", indeed! "Then you can afford to stay a few days?" 

Methos drained his glass and set it down. "A few days," he promised. "Then I really must move on to London. Business calls, and all that." 

_He's setting a limit. I'll have to work fast._ Sean refilled Methos' glass, considering that he'd have to get to the next step by attacking head-on. "So, how long do you think the compulsion will rest, this time?" 

Methos shivered, ever so slightly. "A few years, at least. A decade, if I'm lucky." 

"If you can find a place to live where people aren't often stupid or vicious." 

"There's no such place." Methos stared bleakly into the fire. "The nearest I've found are some islands in the south Pacific...and those people are so hopelessly vulnerable. Sooner or later some bastard will come along and discover them." 

_Move him toward it._ "But you once knew a place like that? A life like that?" 

"The old world..." Methos sobbed abruptly, and pressed his hands to his eyes. 

_Darius' penance left his emotions close to the surface._ "The old world, where you were born and raised. A good world, you said." 

"And it died!" Methos wailed. "Natural disaster and human evil, and we've all been in hell ever since, and nobody knows it but me!" 

Sean hitched closer and wrapped his arm around Methos' quivering shoulders. "Those who don't know, suspect," he said quietly. "We all know that this is not the best of all possible worlds. We struggle for change, for progress, because we know -- simply by seeing the sorrows around us -- that there are better ways to live." 

"Four thousand years of this..." Methos groaned. 

_Now._ "What was the worst of it?" Sean probed. 

"Blood--" Methos gulped, and shuddered. "Cruelty--" That was in Latin. 

"What cruelty?" Sean dared, in Attic Greek. 

Methos only gave a long moan. 

"Where was it?" Sean tried. 

"Car--" Methos choked. "Caria gone! Gone! And Knossos, and Truia!" In Greek. 

Sean wondered about that initial hesitation, but pursued the main thread. "Were all the old cities destroyed by the..." He couldn't recall a Greek word for volcanic eruption. "...the Wrath of Poseidon?" 

"Not all." Methos sounded a little calmer. "Shaken down. Walls broken. Fires. I saw the wreckage, after. People burying their dead, trying to gather what they could, rebuild, go on... But the rot set in, like festering in a wound. The despair, because the goddess had forsaken them -- and then the new ways, the curse of kings... Oh gods, I saw it everywhere!" 

"And you despaired too?" 

"Not at first. I searched, looking for any that were still whole and clean... Gods, I sailed the sea that rolled where Atalantis once stood! Gone, all gone... Searched on. The rot was everywhere." 

"When did you fall into despair?" The key had to be there somewhere. 

"Sometime after I returned to Byblos, with word that Atalantis was gone." Methos' shaking had subsided, and he was back to speaking French. "...That was where the priestess fell in love with me." 

"What was her name?" Sean tried. 

"Amaranthe of Mycenae. She was good to me. I wanted to stay, be her consort..." 

"Why didn't you?" 

"She would have learned I was immortal." He reached for the glass. "I told you, I didn't want to be a demigod again." 

_Somewhere in here, the Immortals went into hiding._ "How did you leave?" Sean asked. 

"Stole away in the dead of night. Broke her heart, no doubt." Methos took a mouthful of the brandy. 

"And your own?" Sean prodded gently. 

Methos bowed his head, then nodded once. "It hurt," he admitted. "But I had to do it." 

_Carefully now..._ "Your fear was stronger than your love?" 

Methos flinched, and took a gulp of his drink. 

"Understandable, considering what you'd been through." Sean gave him a brief, reassuring hug across the shoulders. "When did you meet your next Immortal?" 

Methos shuddered, and didn't seem to notice it. "I...can't tell. It's not in my journal," he murmured. "Too soon. I didn't start keeping a journal until much later. Time-- I'm not sure of the sequence. Old memories, jumbled..." 

_Evasion._ "Then what's your next memory of another Immortal?" 

"...Iola..." Methos seemed to startle himself with the name. "Her name was Iola. In the wilderness... I was traveling, wandering -- a wandering scribe, town to town. Near a heap of boulders I felt her Quickening, and she felt mine. She poked her head up out of the rocks. 'My brother!' she cried, in bad Minoan -- I knew from that she was another foreigner, gone to Knossos for training, as most of us did..." 

Sean caught himself being tempted to let the digression run on. Methos knew so much marvelous detail about the past -- and doubtless knew it would fascinate people, divert their attention. _Clever, clever subconscious..._ "What happened then?" he insisted. 

Methos paused for a quick gulp of the brandy. "'Help me'," she said -- plus the standard prayer for aid, calling the high gods to witness. It was a formula we learned at the temple, the great school--" 

"What help did she need?" Sean dragged him back to the subject. 

"Uh... I don't remember everything she said, but..." Methos' fingers began to move in unnoticed patterns. "She was hiding from mortals. From her own worshippers. They'd begged her to make the rains come, and she couldn't, so they attacked her -- in her own temple -- and she had to run. She was crying, couldn't understand it. I did, but I couldn't explain. 'Mortals have become corrupted' was the best I could do." 

"What else did you do?" Sean nudged. 

Methos rubbed his forehead with splayed fingers, as if combing his thoughts. "I told her...travel with me, but pretend we're a mortal couple. Let no one know. It was hard to persuade her. She couldn't believe mortals would all turn on their old gods...wanted to take up her duties again. Finally I found a small town, a temple for her. She was happy, and the people seemed to love her. I left her there, and went on." He shuddered again. "Centuries later, I learned that another demigod had moved in and forced her to marry him in the new fashion. There were legends about their quarrels. Eventually he took her head. I went hunting for him, but someone else got him first." 

"That was when the Game began?" Sean couldn't help asking. 

"Not yet. It wasn't the Game yet; no legends about the Prize. That came later. But...headhunting had started. It came with the new lawlessness. Greedy bastards, Quickening-junkies..." Methos pulled a harsh breath. "What had once been the ultimate crime, or the ultimate sacrifice... Now it was just one more advantage that the strong could take from the weak. Might makes right. Ugly new world." 

Diversion. Pull him back to his own experiences. "When did you first meet an Immortal who attacked you?" 

Methos dropped his hands into his lap, his expression vague. "Not then. Not for a long time...long..." 

"But you had already begun hiding from mortals?" 

"Yes. Yes..." Methos huddled lower, and reached for his drink. "I saw reason to hide. Tried to preach that to other Immortals I met. Hawwah listened. Hyakinthos didn't, at least not then." 

_File away those names for later._ "How many other Immortals did you meet in your wanderings?" 

"Only a few. Perhaps half a dozen in all that time..." 

"All what time?" Sean pounced on the clue. "How long did you wander?" 

"I..." Methos shook his head, looking lost. "Not sure. At least a century, maybe two, I think." He took a fast mouthful of brandy. "It all runs together." 

Sean did some fast calculating, recalling dates and places. "Did you see the Trojan War?" 

Methos shook his head. "I visited Truia, saw Helen among the royal family, at the theatre, but that was all. She wasn't that pretty, really. Everyone knew there would be war because of her, but nobody cared. Stupid, stupid..." He paused, looking confused. "That was later, after I...joined the immortal bandit-gang. I was there selling slaves, purchasing supplies, scouting. Truia wasn't the same, a travesty of its old self. The Immortals were gone, nothing but statues in the temples, and a king ruled. The women had lost power...and skill. Only the princess had any true psychic ability, and nobody listened to her." 

"How did you know, if you only saw her the once, at the theatre?" Sean asked, intrigued despite himself. 

Methos winced, and sank further into the couch. "She gazed around at the crowd, stared straight at me, and cried out that there was a god present. I took care to look away, pretended I was searching the crowd, like everybody else. Her mother shushed her. When the play started, as soon as everyone was distracted, I got out. Left the city next morning. Never went back. Later I heard of the war, and the sacking, and the carrying off of the women. The only one I pitied was that little princess." 

_Dates, places...narrow it down. Troy fell somewhere around 1200 BC. The eruption was at roughly 1650..._ "How long had you been with the bandits, by then?" 

"A couple of centuries." Methos took a leisurely sip of his drink. "Long enough that I was thoroughly used to the lifestyle, comfortable with it. Almost back to myself." 

_Back to himself?_ "What had you been before you joined them?" _...from about 1650 to 1400 BC..._

Methos shivered, hard enough to slosh the brandy in his glass. "...wandering, hiding..." He was speaking Greek again. "...seeing horrors...that mortals made." 

_Maybe two centuries, he said: 1650 to 1450, at most. That leaves perhaps 50 years unaccounted for... But these are only rough dates, could be wrong._ Sean could see no way around the next question. He pulled Methos a little closer, letting the man lean on him. "Tell me about the horrors," he said quietly. 

"Gods!" Methos put his glass down, fast. "I can't--they blur together--no order, no sense of time--" 

"Just describe whatever surfaces first." 

"Killing the priestess!" Methos gasped, eyes fixed on the fire. 

"Who killed her?" 

"Soldiers... Northerners. Plains-people, not Scyths... Oh gods, they must have lived close to Soroas' lair, must have heard his evil ideas, and came south to sack the sea-lands cities. They... They'd robbed and burned a farm near town; I saw it on the road, and went to cover. I stole through the woods and looked down, saw them killing and burning. The women and children took refuge in the temple. The priestess stood at the gate and threatened them with the wrath of the goddess if they attacked there. They laughed and speared her. Then they broke down the gate and ran in...I could hear the screams... That was when I knew that the old ways, the old laws, had broken totally -- and there was no hope. The high gods had abandoned us. Mortals had turned on the Immortals. Men turned on women. It was all gone, and we were living in hell." 

"And what did you do?" 

"Nothing. I stole away, and went on." 

"What happened next?" 

"Nothing. Nothing I can remember." Methos took up his glass and drained it. 

"Then what's the next thing you do remember?" 

"Passing more ruins." Methos set his glass down carefully and stared at it, as if he found it a marvel that the fragile glass was intact. "Scattered bones, chewed by wolves. Fields gone fallow. Ruins and corpses, of various ages. Ruined towns, ruined farms... I wondered how the survivors would eat. Then I saw hunters, herders -- all armed and fierce, eager to kill any stranger. I did a lot of hiding, watching from cover." 

"Social collapse, following the disaster," Sean murmured. "But there were some towns left." 

"Yes. Big ones. Walled without, rotten within." Methos shifted his gaze back to the fire. He was shaking visibly. 

"What rot did you see?" 

"Killing the god," Methos whispered. "I saw..." 

"They killed an Immortal?" 

"No. Impersonator." Methos trembled harder. "The demigod -- the Immortal -- had long since gone. Clever of him. Instead, some mortal claimed the title. He claimed kingship of the city and all its lands, and the people let him. They truly believed, truly worshipped. I watched, and sneered, just a humble scribe..." 

"And then?" Sean gripped tight, guessing that Methos would need it. 

Methos flinched heavily and sagged in Sean's grasp. "They ate him! They-- He was their god, and on his holy day they killed him! It was a great ceremony, a feast, and while he was drinking they stabbed him. Then they... Ahhh gods, they cut his throat and bled him out like a sheep! Caught the blood in a basin, and everyone drank it. Then they... Sean, Sean, they cut him up and cooked the pieces on the altar-fire, and they--they ate him! They almost fainted with holy joy as they ate the pieces." 

"Ritual cannibalism!" Sean trembled, but held fast. "Sacrament..." 

"'Take ye and eat, for this is my body'." Methos grated through his teeth. "Darius, Darius, you always wondered why I never attended mass..." 

"Did you have to--" Sean couldn't finish. 

"I could pretend to drink when they passed the cups around. Pretending to eat was harder. I managed to slip it down under my collar...gods, I could feel that wet lump under my tunic, and I couldn't be rid of it until I could escape... Left the city that night. I knew there would be others. I knew...they would do the same to us, if they could. They would, they would..." He was shaking like an aspen leaf.

"Is that when you began to hate them?" Sean asked softly. 

"I feared them," Methos whispered. "I hid." 

_But when did it turn to active hate? Sean wondered,_ rubbing Methos' shoulders gently. _When did killing them become a need you couldn't ignore?_ "Methos, under what circumstances did you kill your first mortal?" 

"I...I'm not sure..." Methos blinked at the fire for a long moment. His trembling slowly subsided. When he spoke again, it was in French. "In battle," he recalled. "As a young tribesman, when one of the plains tribes tried to steal our cattle. I shot him with an arrow, a clean shot in the heart. I remember being amazed when he fell over -- but then more were coming, and I had no time to think. Only after the fight... I sat up late that night, pondering mortality." 

"You didn't know...?" 

"I'd been told I was Child of the Goddess, and what that meant, but I'd never really thought about it before: that I would live on and on, and mortals would die all around me. I remember that I grieved..." 

"For mortals?" 

"No, for myself." Methos turned to look at him. "It meant I'd never reach the Land of the Stars, where good souls went after death. Our people believed in that. All the Scyths did." 

"'Scyths'?" 

Methos twitched. "I was a Scythian! My mother was...Ametha of Hawk Tribe. I practically grew up on horseback. I... Oh gods, I remember it! I haven't remembered in centuries! The horses and hunting and following the herds around the circle of the year -- the great camps, where there were fixed buildings, and the temple of the goddess, and--and--" He sat up, eyes wide. "...picking ripe berries and startling a deer, swimming in the shallows of the Euxine-the Black Sea...the huge fish we caught, my puppy, my embroidered red wool blanket, mother singing at the campfires, my first horse, playing hide-and-seek in the tall grass--" 

The subconscious, Sean considered, would desperately hide its secrets -- even sacrifice lesser secrets to protect the greater. This too was a diversion, but a useful one. Let it run. Methos leaned forward urgently, words tumbling out of him, like a river in sudden thaw. "The horses-small and shaggy, no more than twelve hands high, only children could really ride them, but they were so good at pulling carts-- I didn't see riding-sized horses for another thousand years-- The cattle were small and shaggy too, and the children herded them, and we used to chase them until our mothers scolded us for spoiling the milk, and--and-- Oh, I was happy then! Life was good, and the world was good, and...I never thought it would change..." His breath caught, and tears broke from his eyes. "Gods, I was so innocent...and so happy..." 

"A solid emotional grounding, that's lasted you all your life." Sean gripped his shoulders. "Think about it, my friend. You've regained those memories for a reason." _And forgot them for another reason, but we'll get to that later._ "Think about them now. Go over them in detail. Understand -- now -- the lessons you learned then. See how they made you what you are." 

"Yes...yes..." Methos' gaze drifted around the room, and he absently wiped tears off his cheeks. "...Sean, if it wouldn't put you out too much, could I borrow that guest-room of yours for awhile?" 

"It's no trouble at all," Sean smiled. He gave Methos' shoulders a last squeeze, then drew his hands away. "Give me a moment to call my secretary and have the room made up." 

"A cozy fire in the grate, and a decanter on the side-table?" Methos smiled, leaning back on the couch. 

"And an attached bathroom, with a good-sized tub," Sean promised. He stood up, went to his desk and took up the phone. It took only a moment to make the arrangements, but when Sean set down the phone and turned back, Methos was already curled up asleep at the end of the couch. Sean smiled in relief, went to the fireplace and put on another log. He'd let Methos rest for an hour or so, then take him to the guest-room and settle him in. Best make certain of dinner; his old friend would require a decent meal and a good wine with it. They could talk some more afterward, probably make further progress. Methos was a willing and determined patient. 

But how much time would he allow for this? Only a few days, he'd said: eternally cautious, always making certain of his escape routes. He must have known that setting a time-limit would oblige Sean to make the sessions more intense. Perhaps that was what he wanted: a hard and fast cure, and a quick escape afterward. 

Sean shook his head, knowing it wouldn't happen that way. They'd barely found the borders of the cause for Methos' compulsion, narrowed down the area of search into not less than two centuries, that era of jumbled horrors where Methos' sense of place and time became vague. 

_Roughly two centuries of chaotic hell. That alone might have done it._

But at least they'd dug out something important, something helpful. Methos had remembered his childhood, and it was a time of happiness and certainty -- enough to have carried the man through thousands of years in what he considered a blighted, marred and darkened world. 

That in itself was cause for hope. 

\--END-- 

* * *

© 2004   
Please send comments to the author! 

04/20/2004 

* * *


End file.
